Scarred
by xXdollstitchesXx
Summary: Many, many thanks to eames, who allowed me to pilfer her prompts and titles. Mirrors "Undone" but with Bobby's story. First chapter rated "T" the rest...who knows?
1. Wildly Inappropriate

**A/N: Many more to follow after this one. I've just cranked out Chapter 14 to my other story however, and sleep is banging insistently behind my eyelids. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!**

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His shoes murmur and squeak against his neglected wooden floors. He catches a glimpse of his tightly drawn expression in the living room mirror. Sighing, he drags his hand down his face, his two day old stubble scratching his palm. Impulsively, he decides to shave. He stalks off to his bathroom and paws around for a razor. A few swipes later, he's back to his living room, pacing anxiously like a confined tiger at the New York Zoo. He feels a little bit like a caged animal, his hair bristled and his nostrils twitching nervously. He has to stop pacing, before he wears a line into the floor.

Bobby flops down on his couch, taking one final survey of his apartment. Books all in their place, no dishes in the sink, his gun and badge safely tucked away in a locked drawer. His shoulders begin to shake; first, softly, then faster and faster, until he's erupted into a guffawing laughter. He actually cares how his apartment looks. It took _this_ for him to clean up his act and actually…a knock at the door. He leaps up. His heart is desperately trying to escape the confines of his ribs, a frightened bird in a bony cage. No turning back now. Inhaling deeply, he forces his feet over to his door, and swings it open.

She's turned away, examining his hallway stretched out behind her. He catches a flash of her smooth skin, revealed beneath the scooped back of her dress. She faces him, baring her teeth in a nervous smile. Her eyes are a deep brown like his, but her hair is a fiery red. Very obviously dyed. He doesn't care. It looks soft, curling into shy waves as it flows across her shoulders. She arches one perfectly plucked eyebrow at him. "Bobby?"

He nods wordlessly and steps aside to let her in. Her heels click against his abused floors, scarred and lacking the sheen typically associated to lacquer wood flooring. Her shawl slides from her shoulders into his waiting hands, followed by her purse. "I'm Stacy. You called…?"

"Um, y-yes, I did." He didn't want her to say it out loud. Saying it out loud made it real. Saying it out loud make him culpable, made him responsible. He shook the agonizing thoughts from his head. He was a person godammit. He was a man.

She quieted his racing thoughts with a hand on his chest, sliding beneath the jacket he never took off. Her smile was now reserved to one corner of her mouth, turned up mischievously. "So, are you the kinda guy that likes to do dinner and a movie, or are you the kinda guy that likes to get to the fun part of my job?" She's pushing him now, lightly, toward his couch. Probably wouldn't take much more than a feather to knock him down at this point. And it doesn't. He slips backward, the sofa catching him before he plummets to the floor. She curls in next to him, running a finger down the side of his neck, under his collar. He looks away, his eyes cast downward. "I just need s-some…company…for the night." She throws her head back and giggles a much rehearsed move. Bobby wonders how many men she went through before perfecting that move. She slides easily into his lap, tossing her flaming hair over her shoulder as she leans in to kiss him.

"I can be anything you want, big fella." She presses her lips against his, already trembling with regret and desire. His arms circle around her waist, drifting down to grasp her thighs and lift her up. She wraps her legs around his midsection, squealing playfully as he carries her through the hallway and into his bedroom. He hadn't thought this through, as the mechanics of gently placing a vertical woman on a horizontal mattress, versus the forces of gravity crosses his mind. So, he turns with his back to the bed and sits on the edge, Stacy still wrapped around him. She overtakes him, peeling his jacket from his shoulders and pressing him down against the mattress. Her fingers work effortlessly to free him from his shirt, yanking it from beneath him and flinging it across the room. Very theatric. Bobby realizes that he's not having any fun with this. If he was gonna break, if he was gonna fall for this, he was going to fall all the way.

He reaches behind and rips her zipper down, pulling the dress down over her shoulders, her breasts, until its wrapped around her stomach. He gazes for a moment, wanting to remember every curve of her skin. Before she can lean down, he reaches up and grabs her ribcage, supporting her as he flips her over and crawls on top of her. He finishes removing her dress, dragging it across his nose before dropping it beside the bed. Roses. Cliché, but still a lovely classic. He plants kisses and swipes of his tongue everywhere that he can reach, drinking in her scent and her taste and her _feel. _She moans quietly, her fingers twisting into his hair. Her panties are off before he can even think. She reaches down to remove her black thigh high stockings and shiny patent pumps. He clasps her wrist with his fingers, gently, but firmly. "No. Leave them. P-please?"

She chuckles into his ear, her words coming out in breaths "Sure thing, dirty boy." Gently she drags her nails down his back, enraptured by the path of his lips and hands. He slides down, kneeling on the floor, yanking her body down with him, until she's perched on the edge of the bed. Bobby laps hungrily at her smooth center, her legs curling over his shoulders as she bucks and moans on the bed above him. He made love to her this way, three times, until she lies motionless, the quivering of her thighs the only movement in the room. He moves to the other side of the bed, stretching out across it and pulling her on top of him. Instinctively, she removes his pants and boxers. He watches her for a moment before reaching to his nightstand. He pulls open the drawer, and lets forth a curse at the sight of the empty Trojan box. The crinkle of foil distracts him, and he looks back to her just in time to see a condom wrapper emerging from the top of her thigh high. She holds it up triumphantly. "Gotcha covered." Expertly, she applies it to his twitching length. She brings her mouth down to meet his, holding his lips to hers as she slides down onto him. Bobby gasps into her mouth, his eyes wide and rolling back. It had just been so…damned…long. He twines his fingers into her hair and holds her close as she moves above him, inhaling deeply, as if her perfume and shampoo and sweat were the only oxygen in the room. She moved slowly, dragging it out, making it as good for him as he had made it for her. It was another hour before he finally released, panting and gasping and exhausted. He moves to encircle her, hoping that she could stay, at least for a little while. She beats him to it, curling against his stretched out frame and sighing softly. He wraps his arm around her, burying his nose into her hair, before sleep swallows him.

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The trickling of water drags him from his slumber. He rolls over, squinting against the bright light of his bathroom. She is in there, twisting her scorching hair upward into some semblance of style. She hears him move, and turns to face him, smiling. "Good morning. Well, good-one-hour-later, anyway." She chuckles lightly, reaching back to pull up her zipper. She makes her way over to the bed and leans down, planting a kiss on his forehead. "I have to go."

Bobby snaps back to reality. "Um…my wallet is in my pants…where did um…where did they land?" He feels a blush coming on. She giggles and runs her hand through his hair.

"This one's on me, big fella." Confused, he watches as she glides across the room and opens the bedroom door. "You have the number to the agency." She flashes him a wink "I hope you call again. Real soon. Take care, Bobby." With that, she's out the door. He listens sadly for the click of his front door. He pulls the comforter over his chest, his king sized bed suddenly feeling like a king sized auditorium, big and empty and cold. He curls his legs upward, a sigh erupting from the deepest confines of his soul. His neglected and scarred soul, lacking the shine typically associated with a highly decorated detective. Bobby pulls the pillow she had rested on to his face, breathing in roses, and slept this way.


	2. Young

**A/N: So here's the next in the series of prompts. To understand where I am going with this, you really need to read "Undone" by author eames. She did a series of prompts, and I am simply mirroring her prompts, but with Bobby's story instead of Eames'. So, basically, this is a series of unconnected drabbles. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!**

The sun beat down on his large frame, rising ever higher in its cruel quest to bake him to a crisp. He walks toward his Canarsie brownstone, head down, hands thrust in his pockets. Bobby is suddenly curious as to how people can live in places like Florida and Louisiana, when the heat this far up north is so unrelenting. Must be an acquired taste, he muses, every step bringing him closer to home, closer to the task at hand. It was a good twenty blocks from the recruiter's office to his home; plenty of time to change his mind. He hadn't. Six blocks.

It was a series of events that brought Bobby to his decision, stretched out over the almost two decades that comprised his short existence. He had bounced from class to class throughout college, before finally settling on psychology. The money had run out before he could earn more than a bachelor's degree, however; which would be great, if he wanted to be a high school guidance counselor or teach the subject. One of his more advanced classes had touched briefly on psychology of the criminal mind. Bobby found himself fascinated, staying up even later than usual to devour sections of the assigned text. He barely had a chance to sink his teeth into the subject, before the six week period was over, and the professor moved on to the next learning unit. Five blocks.

At night he'd pulled shifts at the garage belonging to his friend Lewis' family, tinkering with air conditioners and oil changes or changing carpets. Lewis and his family had always been good to Bobby, paying him slightly more than what his labor was actually worth. Although it shamed Bobby to accept their charity, he was grateful for it, and showed it by never being late and always volunteering for menial tasks that didn't actually fit his job description. His wage, combined with his mother's monthly Social Security check earned enough to keep the house lit and the fridge mostly full. His older brother Frank was a register jockey at a local convenience store, but those wages barely covered his daily pot habit. No matter. His mother would never ask anything of her first born, the apple of her eye. By accepting this offer, he would earn three times what he made at the garage, along with health benefits that would include his mother. Four blocks.

It was hard to get your foot in anywhere these days. The Vietnam War had been over for years, but the economy still suffered. Businesses closed left and right, and there was no work anywhere, especially for a kid fresh out of college, and lacking any real world experience. You couldn't get a job if you didn't have experience, but you couldn't get experience if no one would hire you. Only places still accepting applications were the Sanitation Department and…well, this. Bobby knew that he would return from his travels a more experienced man, a well rounded man, the favor of the Armed Forces opening any door he pleased. Three blocks.

Every day, his brother sank deeper and deeper into his birthright. It started out with beers in the alley after school. Eventually, some punk who got into his dad's stash had offered Frank a joint. It was all downhill from there. Frank started skipping school to hang out at friend's houses, playing Atari and getting high. This led to his expulsion from school, and landed him in his current minimum wage position. Bobby saw his brother going the way of their father, showing strong signs of an addictive personality. Of course, he was in no position to judge. Bobby was a normal kid, and had tried his share of alcohol. He found beer to be distasteful, but slowly acquired a taste for the scotch Lewis pilfered from the top shelf of his parent's pantry. It wasn't long before he found himself sneaking over to Lewis' after a long day of school and grease monkey work, eyeing the square bottle longingly. Bobby didn't want to follow in his father's footsteps, or find himself too close behind his brother. This was a chance for him to learn some discipline, some…self control. Two blocks.

His breath hitched in his throat. She wasn't going to like this. Bobby prepared himself for the shrill berating that would soon follow his announcement. First, she would laugh, thinking that he wasn't serious. Then, she would scream, calling him an idiot for risking his life in the name of Big Brother, a government that could send her boy to die at war but couldn't send her checks out on time. She would think his decision to be another plot in the government's ruthless campaign against her. Then, and this is the worst part, she would cry, hurling accusations at him, begging him not to abandon her like his good for nothing father had. He shuddered at the thought. His mother's wild mood swings caused her tears to be nothing out of the ordinary. But, to be the source of those tears was something he wasn't sure he could bear.

He straightened his spine and pulled his shoulders back, reminding himself that it was all for the greater good, his as well as hers. Inhaling deeply, Bobby reached for the doorknob.


	3. Bedtime

For the moment, he focused on sounds. Click as his key went into the lock and turned. The thump of his foot against the door, the fwap of leather hitting leather as his binder made contact with his couch. The swish as his coat landed on the armrest, then swiiiiiiiish as it slid off and puddled on the floor. He avoided sights. Sights included things like lights and shiny objects, which served to compound his annoying headache into a crippling migraine. So, he entered his apartment, eyes down, lids half closed.

It had been a horrible day. A horrible, endless, shitty day. The kind of day where glancing at the clock tells you that it's 1:30 pm, then glancing at it again two hours later tells you that it's now 1:36 pm. They had arrested a priest today, something that never sat well with Bobby, lapsed Catholic or not. Twenty odd years of religious brainwashing still won out over twenty odd years of police training, at the end of the day anyway. Taking a priest into custody came with a whole new set of bullshit, separate from the usual paperwork. The Catholic church was the first to encourage confession, but the last to admit the sins of its religious authority figures. High powered lawyers and religious doctrine only complicated the situation.

He couldn't get to the scotch fast enough. Bobby took it easy on himself, deciding to add a splash of water to the glass. No sense in encouraging the migraine. He plodded over to his couch, toeing his shoes off as he reached for the remote. He flipped through the channels, settling on a new reality show on Spike TV. A team of scientists and modern day weapons experts used electrical equipment and custom software to pit fighters of different ages together, in an attempt to see who would win. Deadliest…something or other. Tonight's episode featured Samurai Warriors against Vikings. He drained the last of his scotch and, deciding against another one, stretched into a horizontal position, his large feet dangling over the end of the couch.

The thud of swords slicing through leather punching bags mingled with the soft growl of a snore.


	4. Sleep

Brooklyn lay beneath him, a glittering field of lights against the night sky. Bobby watched from his bedroom window, his large frame draped lazily against the wall. Cars scuttled down his street like so many ants, never sleeping. Just like this city. Just like him.

The first step to curing a problem is admitting that you indeed, have a problem. When your insomnia reaches a predictable pattern, it may be time to admit that there is a problem. Sleep always eluded him. That, he had become accustomed to. But, after days like these, it was a sure bet that he would see the light of day before he would see the inside of his eyelids. Another girl had been found, last week. She had been left in an alley, her blue eyes wide, and staring into nothingness. Like every other victim, she had been redressed and her hair smoothed over, a façade of perfection. They had finally collared the guy this morning, a "freelance" maintenance worker who had done odd jobs at each of the victim's buildings. Off the books of course, this made him harder to find. Two girls had been killed in that time, each of their soft faces burned into his memory. After days like these, the scotch couldn't flow fast enough, and the screams of victims echoed too loudly in his aching head.

The dreams always began in darkness. Faces forming at the back of his mind, twisting into roars of pain, mouths wide, and eyes squeezed shut. Their skin always glowed an unnatural white, as if lit from beneath. Bobby could hear them, screaming, crying, whimpering. He found it impossible to move in these dreams, and difficult to breathe.

He moved away from the window, away from the suffocating blackness that lay just outside his walls. He considered calling in tomorrow…well, today anyway. The smell of scotch flowing over ice cubes sickened him, he had far too much tonight. He continued to pour, rationalizing that it was for the sake of slumber. He fiddled with the TV remote, flipped through some well worn and mostly memorized books, before settling back at his bedroom window to watch the city below. Sleep would, again, elude him.

No matter.

Turns out, he and Sleep didn't get along so well.


	5. Footedness

He caught sight of her from across the smoke laden bar; a brief flash of red, in the corner of his eye. He turned his head first, then his entire body, swiveling toward her on his barstool. She strolled across the dance floor, dodging the swirling couples playfully. She arrived at her table, surrounded by other women around her age and sat down, rejoining their conversation. Her hair was a deep mahogany brown; her eyes were big and blue, set against her pale skin. Her crimson dress hugged every curve of her body, provocatively, but not inappropriately. The skirt gave way to long, smooth legs, bare of stockings and ending at a pair of tiny feet, encompassed by fashionable heels.

He broke his gaze from her, afraid of drawing her attention. Bobby didn't normally frequent this small piano bar. He'd passed it earlier this afternoon, on his way to submit to a random drug screen issued by the department. The soft music lilting out onto the street was enough to draw him back later that evening, after his shift had ended. He usually found himself in the darkest corner of the Italian joint down the street from his Brooklyn apartment, where no one knew him or cared to know him. It wasn't that Bobby didn't like people. On the contrary, he found them fascinating. People, on the other hand, found him to be odd and out of sorts with the rest of humanity. Didn't matter, really. He found that he had little time to socialize, spending most of his time undercover, and unable to connect with anyone for fear of being exposed. The sound of applause rose gently from the dance floor as the swing cover band wrapped up a song. With a few 'thank you's and a 'remember to tip your waitress', they moved to their next piece. A Sinatra staple. And one of Bobby's favorites. He typically spent his time at a bar glued to his seat and to his glass. But, his promotion to Major Case had just been finalized today, and he felt like celebrating. Pulling his shoulders back, he drained the last sip of his drink and sauntered over to the attractive brunette. He saw the eyes of every woman at that table go wide as he held out his hand, palm up.

"May I ah, have this dance?"

Her cheeks turned a shade darker than her dress. Half of giggle escaped her mouth before she smiled and stammered out "S-sure." She took his hand and stood, allowing him to lead her out onto the floor. He swung around to face her and, grasping her other hand, began leading her into a foxtrot. It was a habitual move, the thought that this slightly younger woman might not know the outdated steps never occurred to him. "I'm Bobby." He stretched his mouth into what he hoped was a flirtatious smile.

"I'm Anna" she smiled back, her statement punctuated by her foot coming down on top of Bobby's. He flinched slightly, more out of surprise than pain. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" She blushed fiercely now, the redness reaching even the tops of her ears.

He gave a low chuckle. "It's alright. You um…you must be left handed." Her eyes widened in surprise.

"How'd you know?"

"Well, you um, you lead with your left foot, as do I, hence the unpleasant meeting of the two." Unpleasant. Dammit. Now he'd made her think that it hurt. _Unexpected._ He should have said unexpected. Bobby cursed himself inside his head.

She didn't seem to notice the negative connotation of his adjective. Instead, she was fascinated by his knowledge of which hand she wrote with. "But, what does my hand have to do with how I dance?"

They continued moving to the music, abandoning the complicated ballroom steps for a simple sway-step motion. "Your um, dexterity plays a large role in everything you do. People tend to ah, to lead with the side of their body that they use to w-write. They start chewing their food on that side of their m-mouth, they extend that hand to um, shake, and when they take a step, they lead with that foot. So, just like there is uh, right and left handedness, there is right and left ah…_footedness." _

She threw her head back and laughed at the ceiling. It wasn't a mocking laugh, however, just a mildly surprised one. "Footedness?"

Bobby decided to make light of his silly manipulation of the English language. "Yes, ah, footedness. Pretty brunettes have a strange effect on me. First, my heart races. Then, I stammer a bit, and finally I ah, make up words in an attempt to sound intelligent." She blushed lightly at his use of the word 'pretty', and responded to his admission with a giggle. Neither of them had noticed the song's end, and continued swaying well into the next. Bobby found out that she was a History teacher at a nearby high school, and that her friends had kidnapped her from grading papers to come out dancing tonight. They attempted the foxtrot one more time, but their matching…footedness…kept leading to stomped upon toes. So they'd given up and laughed, dancing one more song together before breaking apart and clapping enthusiastically for the band, now departing the stage for a brief intermission. Bobby turned to his dance partner and gave an exaggerated bow. She replied with a chuckle and a mock curtsey.

He met her eyes, the question dying on his lips. He hated that question. He could never find a way of asking for a woman's phone number without sounding like a sleaze.

_Can I call you sometime?  
Could I maybe get your phone number?  
Hey baby, let me get them digits._

She met his gaze, a small look of hope crossing her face. The raised eyebrows, the faint sideways smile, the held breath. Bobby sighed, defeat washing over him like a lead tide. The new job. His devotion to the badge. The irrepressible manner in which he drove everyone in his life away, either by being too guarded, too analytical, or just being himself. He dropped his eyes to the floor. Awkwardly, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You're um…you're a lovely dancer. Enjoy your evening." With that, he stalked off to the bar, slapping a twenty down on the wood surface before heading out. He resisted the urge to look back toward Anna, still stunned, in the middle of the dance floor. New York greeted him with a cold blast of wind, snaking under his jacket and chilling him to the marrow. He pulled his blazer tight and walked to the corner, his arm upraised to signal a cab. Bobby climbed into the car and, after instructing the driver where to go, flopped back against the under stuffed seat. He sighed, his gaze drifting outward, toward the city. He'd have the rest of the weekend to reflect on what a fool he was. Monday began his new career. And the rest of his life.


	6. Terror

Fear is a cowardly fucker, crawling into your bones and gnawing at the marrow while you sleep, seeping into your blood and turning it cold. Terror…terror is much braver than that. The gut, the esophagus, the lungs…these are the places that it nests, exploding out of you like a forgotten land mine that you got just a little too close to.

Bobby had never heard the sound of his own heartbeat before. It pounded hypnotically inside his ears; sheer terror alone prevented him from being lulled to sleep by the metronome like beats. Every inch traveled was one inch less between his dinner and the back of his throat, and the ancient car lurching at every stop sign only served to tumble his stomach more. He didn't know where he was going. And if _he_ didn't know where he was going, then maybe _they_ didn't know where he was going. And if _they_ didn't know where he was going…oh god.

_CloseCloserClosingclosingclosing._

The headlights fade to black, leaving one vigilant streetlight to do the job. The brakes squeak a tiny protest as the car slows to a stop in front of the Vietnamese restaurant. Red paper lanterns bob and float in the breeze on invisible twine, and Bobby is sure he's the only one that sees them dancing. He adjusts the knot on his cheap tie, a loud pattern set against an unreasonably tacky shirt. His long legs bend and fold, carrying him out of the car and up a flight of stairs, behind a companion half his age and twice as weathered. Seth taps a quick pattern on the door and Bobby's heart follows his lead. Instinctively, he ducks his head while passing through the frame. He would laugh, if his throat hadn't suddenly taken on the texture of grave dust. Seth ducks and dodges through several rooms, tapping hands and fists this way and that. A small kitchen rests at the back of the apartment. It's the kind of room that only exists to reassure you that you've acquired a _real_ place to live, in a city of studios and lofts and half apartments with toilets to be shared amongst 5 units.

_You got the stuff, man?_

_Where's my shit, dude?_

_Hey, where's my end pal?_

Bobby loses touch with his companion's voice as it introduces him to the figure seated at the table. He sees the tattoo first. Beginning at the inside of one elbow, and snaking up the arms and across the back to rest at the other elbow is a Chinese dragon. He almost thinks that the painfully detailed scales are glittering beneath the lone bulb in the ceiling fixture, before he realizes that it's beads of sweat. Vu Phan extends a hand to Bobby, his eyes narrow and suspicious. Bobby returns the gesture and invites himself to a seat across from the younger man. He plops the duffel bag on the table unceremoniously, his posture much more languid and relaxed than he feels. Phan paws through the bag, flipping through each stack of strapped one hundred dollar bills carefully. Once satisfied, he drops it on the linoleum floor and kicks it behind him, the fabric making a dull thud as it hits the wall. Bobby holds out his hands, palms up, on either side of him.

"Hey, where's my end pal? My place opens in an hour."

Half of Phan's mouth turns up in a smile, the other half remaining flat and unamused. He stretches one arm out, yanking on the handle to the freezer door, and begins dropping gallon sized ziplock bags on the table. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. All there, and all bursting at the seams with bright pink tablets. The image of the Playboy Bunny head etched into each pill seems to wink at him a thousand fold, as he picks up each one and pretends to examine it. Bobby lets forth a chuckle that he hopes sounds satisfied.

"You know, I gotta lot of honeys lined up outside my joint right now," another laugh, louder and more breathy "that are gonna be _loving _you once I pass these little fuckers out."

Phan joins in his laugh "Maybe you'll be…considerate…and send a few my way. Call it…a return on the discount I gave you." The two erupt into raucous laughs, Seth joining from his corner opposite Bobby. His mind reels, he's sure he's sweating buckets.

_Honeys._

_Honeyshoneyshoneyshoneys._

_Godammit, I said it!_

He was screaming now, inside his head, the wails echoing off the walls of his skull. Right about the spot where the standard issue Glock was pointed. And suddenly, the little apartment is filled with the blessed sounds of footfalls and cocking pistols and shouted threats. Relieved, he stands slowly, placing both hands behind his head and lacing his fingers together. Both suspects are face down on the ground, so neither of them notices that he's performed this action without being told. The cuffs circle his wrists, cold steel meeting sweaty flesh. He follows his Captain downstairs, shouting threats and lobbing curse words at every officer he passes. He struggles half heartedly against the hold his Captain has placed on his shoulder, perhaps twisting and flailing a little too much. They reach the bottom of the steps and round a corner, to an alleyway two buildings down from the restaurant. His stomach drops as the cuffs click open, fearful that one of the suspects heard the tiny sound among the sirens and shouts. Bobby rubs each wrist slowly, his eyes never meeting those of his superior officer.

"Pretty good for your first job kid." The older man fumbles with Bobby's tie, careful and impatient at the same time. "I told you not to fuck with this mic, rook. We almost didn't catch the go word."

Bobby kicks the ground. "S-sorry boss." He just wants to go home. Get out of these cheap clothes and wash the stink of cologne away. His Captain mumbles a few more congratulations, mingled with scolds, before stalking away and rejoining the scene.

When he's sure that his boss is gone, he glances nervously around the filthy alley. Bobby walks to the nearest trash can and vomits.


End file.
